The Absurdist's World View
by Sonjouou
Summary: Year 6 AU An alcoholic offers Harry a job and he takes it, since there isn't any reason not to. Employment, however, brings out the monsters in the dark, the writing on the wall, the worst in men, and the very darkest parts of man's mind.
1. Day One

**DAY ONE**

I.

I don't remember when it was that I stopped caring. It may have been June, or July – yesterday or the month before. But by the time I turned sixteen I had realized that nothing meant anything and that it was time I stopped pretending that it did.

I would get up every morning with the morning. I would wash, brush, dress – go downstairs to cook and eat and cook some more for my aunt and uncle – and take some hours to complete whatever they asked of me. They had stopped doing that though; they left me alone more and more. We were both alright with the arraignment, them more than I.

I would go back to my room and work. It only took two weeks to finish two months of summer homework. The professors hadn't been strict this summer. I almost wish they had. After the two weeks were over, I no longer had anything to do during the afternoons. I would lie in my bed or in the flowerbeds, and watch the ceiling or the clouds, aware of the passage of time and the tickle of the sun.

My friends stopped writing me after a while. I didn't ask them why. It didn't matter why they didn't write because I didn't read the letters, and it was alright with me if they didn't want to take the time to write. They had better things to do – I understood that. It left me more time to think, since now I didn't have to read what they wrote and reply.

When I did go outside, I didn't see any guards, either. I hadn't seen them last year so I didn't expect to see them this year. It may have been nice to have conversations with them but, then, it may have been better not to. It would have depended on their topics.

My aunt tried talking to me sometimes. When I would clean the kitchen or the parlor, I would catch her looking at me with great blue lame eyes like a kitten or an invalid.

"So," she would try to say and then stop, because we both knew that there wasn't anything for us to talk about together. "Chicken fine for supper?" I told her that sounded fine. She pursed her lips. I turned the vacuum back on and then off again when she spoke some more. "I need you to run to the grocer to get the chicken, then, boy," she said, adding the last part so that things sounded normal again.

"Alright," I said, and put the vacuum away. It was now sleeping in the cupboard under the stairs like I used to. I think it liked the cupboard more than I did.

My aunt gave me a list of foodstuffs on a piece of floral-printed paper with the words in green ink and thirty pounds to pay for it all. She told me she expected exact change – I told her that she would get it. She watched me walk out of the kitchen and followed me into the hall and stood in the doorway until I left the house. Then she would run up, fix the doormat, and close both the screen door and the wooden one.

It wasn't a hot day today. There was a breeze and clouds so the sun wasn't beating down on my neck and I could feel my hair brushing on my cheeks and ears. I had to pull my hands out of my pockets and wipe the sweat on my knees, the denim coarse and sticky from cheap detergent. My hands smelled like metal from the sweat and the pounds I was holding.

It was a long walk to the grocer's – out of the neighborhood and into the town. I was glad because now I had something to do for the day. I looked around at the streets and the houses, the playground when I passed it and a football park next to it. Most of them were empty, since everyone was inside. It was nice, because I didn't run into anybody and I could take as long a walk as I wanted – in the road, even, where it was smoother.

When I passed Magnolia Crescent, I bent down and took off my trainers and socks. The tarmac was warm and prickly under my feet, hard when pebbles would get into the skin, but it was different than walking in sneakers all the time. I put my socks in my pockets and held my trainers by the laces in the hand that didn't hold the money.

By the time I got to the grocer's I was covered in sweat. My hair was sticking to my eyelids and my glasses kept sliding down my nose. I had to push them up a lot. The grocer's shop was air conditioned, which made me chilly, but it was a nice difference.

There was a man in the shop buying beer and cigarettes. He was the only other customer. The owner was in the back. That wasn't odd since most people usually drove to the supermarket in Greater Whinging. The man looked up when I walked in. He didn't recognize me but studied me with his eyes. I walked passed him towards the bread.

He followed me when I went to get the milk and butter. He was a tall man, with blonde hair and blue eyes. He was wearing a bomber jacket and some dog tags. His clothes were fine but worn.

"You're a wizard, aren't you?" he asked me. He was American. I nodded. There wasn't any reason to deny it. "I thought so," the man said proudly, "You don't hide it very well. It's obvious to anybody, if they looked."

"I should fix that," I said. I was too noticeable – I had known it for years. The American nodded, tapping his head down.

"What's your name?"

I told him. "Harry."

"How about," the American said, "I buy you a drink?"

I said that was fine. I didn't have anything to do today, anyway, and I had never tasted beer before. He smiled, weary, and paid for his beer and cigarettes and my chicken and food.

II.

It had had many identities over the years – many names and many faces. People called it many things. Big brother, the world's police, a bully, a pig, an interloper, a rebellious child.

It was one of those common anomalies that had been born of greed more than need hundreds of years ago. It was a usurper with power, both given and taken, trashed by all and needed by all, like alcohol and hatred. It was young and mighty –

But now it was drunk on that might and fading away. It was falling down, into the dusty pantheon of past strongmen.

It was a man now, but recently it had been a woman, in need of protection and nursing. He was weary, tired, sick of himself and his problems and the problems made because of him. He was tired of hearing his name spat on and ground into dust, used as a curse and then a hope.

But that didn't stop him from doing what he did. He still did what he did because he needed to, because it was right and it needed to be done.

He had gone to England's domain again to petition an alliance but there was difficulty. People weren't willing to help him, even England. He had wandered because he knew nothing else to do, tired and missing home, which was infuriating because he had come to England's in order to get away from his home.

Now, though, a few of his problems were lessened. He had a wizard with him. It was always good to have a wizard in your company, especially one like Harry Potter.

They were sitting on a park bench beneath an oak tree. The park was empty because it was too hot out for people to relax without air conditioning. He was leaning forward, the sleeves of his bomber jacket pushed up, a can of Heineken in his hands still slick from condensation. A burning cigarette was in between the index and right fingers of his right hand but he was too busy talking to smoke it.

"You can't live without seeing New York, at least once," he was telling Harry. The wizard was holding his Heineken with both hands with both elbows on his knees, fingers still against the wet metal. He was looking blindly ahead and only nodding on occasion. "Or Virginia. I was born in Virginia." He looked up at the sky, thinking of a better place in a better time with better people.

"That's interesting," Harry said in his slow, dead voice.

"You know, I've realized," he said suddenly, bringing the cigarette to his lips and taking a drag of cheap nicotine. It burned his throat and he had to take a drink of beer to cool it back down. "We've been here for a half an hour, and you haven't asked me my name."

"If you wanted me to know you would have told me," Harry explained.

The logical were annoying. He drank some more beer and looked into the depths of the can. The lager was dark like Guinness and sloshed against the insides. He crushed the top of the can, killing the little reflection of light.

What was a name for him to say? The truth? A lie? He had always been very good at giving both. He had had too many names to pick, too many that weren't names, even.

"America," he settled upon, giving it to Harry the wizard.

"I've never heard a person named America before." It was a statement, not a question, not a denouncement.

Harry took a second sip of the Heineken, gently pushing the can to his lips and tilting it back and up. Only a few drops went down his throat but he seemed to enjoy it.

Children were strange. They changed quickly and inexplicably. There seemed no point or purpose to their actions and yet, there was, because it made sense when you took the time to listen to the explanation. And yet the sense lessened with age, crumbled like dead cells and beetle shells. America hadn't had sense in years.

"I like to be different," he proclaimed, leaning backwards, yawning, dropping the cigarette into the beer to get rid of both of them, "It gives people an example to follow when you do a good job. Cigarette?" He offered the pack to Harry who took one. He didn't know how to light it. Flicking the Zippo lid backwards, America continued, "You don't seem to do too much. You need a job?"

"Don't really need money. I'm sixteen."

"Always could use some money. Jesus, never knew a kid to turn away money – I'd be jumping at the chance to do something for an easy buck." He shook his head.

"What's the job?" Harry had a very intense pair of green eyes. They were childlike, simple and solid green, and filled with something deeper, darker, deader. America raised an eyebrow and scratched his chin. He needed a shave, among other things.

"Need an assistant to get things done," he explained, lighting up another cigarette with two clicks and a puff, "Y'know, organize, get things together, make sure I don't say something stupid when I shouldn't." He grinned, half a grimace. "Lots of traveling, not a lot of sleep."

"I don't sleep very much," Harry said.

"That's good. So, you want the job?"

He leaned in. Harry took an inhale on his cigarette but coughed all the smoke right out. He still kept it in his fingers and between his teeth. The eternal sea of emerald green looked forward into the empty.

"Sure," Harry said with a shrug, "I start school on September first, though."

"So? You really don't seem to be the academic type."

"I'm not." Another drag on the nicotine, hands shaking, though dependent or sick.

"So it doesn't matter if you skip class."

"I suppose not."

"Great," America said, grinning, breathing in the cigarette, smoke in his eyes, "Meet me here," he rapped his knuckles on the bench, "At 0600 hours."

"Alright." Harry stood up. He left the Heineken can on the ground but still held onto the cigarette. He slid his hands in pockets and slunk his shoulders, back arched, chin down, gaze sideways. "Thank you for the beer."

"Any time." He was glad Harry didn't ask how much the job paid. He wasn't sure how he was going to pay him or with what. He was too short on money. He didn't know how to support himself anymore, let alone someone else again.

America watched Harry walk away, slowly, steadily, languidly. He seemed to float, untouchable by the woes of the world, a man who has reached apotheosis. Envy sprung up in America's breast. To be invisible, intangible like that, uncaring and misanthropic, was a concept to his ailing existence.

He smoked and drank some more, and watched England's sky go by.

III.

I thought it might feel different to have a job but it really didn't. I now had a place to go during the days and something to look forward to at night. It was a nice difference but consuming. I missed days of nothing.

I wondered what the Order would think of my job. They'd probably be angry. Professor Lupin might be curious. I'd quit it if they wanted me to. I didn't need the money, anyway.

I got up at five the next morning. If my aunt and uncle asked me where I was going I'd tell them I was going for a walk. They didn't ask though. I didn't wake them up. I took a shower and turned the water on cold because yesterday had been so hot and I needed to wake up a little more.

My hair was still wet when I went outside. A breeze blew at my shirt and the water that dripped down my spine was freezing. Even the tarmac was cold under my feet. I was walking without shoes again. It saved time not to put them on and I liked the feeling of the uneven pavement. A few rocks cut my skin, though.

The sky was all red streaked with gray, like ash mixed with blood. All the streets were empty and all the houses were dark. It had been like that a lot lately. I wondered if the American man named America had forgotten to meet me. It might have happened. But he hadn't. He was asleep on the bench on the park.

I poked him in the arm. "Wake up," I said, "I'm here." He grumbled and pulled himself up. His fingertips were blue like a cotton candy snow cone.

"Mornin'," he grumbled. He rubbed at his eyes and yawned. I told him good morning too. He looked like he hadn't slept too much. His eyes were bloodshot and he smelled like alcohol. "You're here really early. I didn't think you'd get her till six, or later."

"I don't have anything else to do today," I explained. He looked at me so I had to explain. "I already did all the summer work I needed to. I don't really know too many people here. Just a summer residence."

He was still looking at me. His eyes were very heavy, like maybe they'd once been bright but had gotten tarnished. "Alright then. So, um," he scratched his head, "We might as well start early. We're going to London. I need to get a couple things but you've gotta jot down some notes for me so I don't forget them."

"I don't have any paper with me." I wondered if I should go back to Number Four and get some. But America told me I didn't need to worry, that we would get a journal or notebook in London.

"I mean, there's probably a paper shop somewhere in London, right?"

"Yeah." I nodded.

He got up and put his hands into his pockets. His jacket looked warm. I probably should have grabbed a coat too but I didn't really own any, just some school cloaks and it wasn't cold enough for them. America began to walk out of the park and I followed him. He was talking and yawning and running hands through his blonde hair.

"England's being stubborn – he won't listen to me right now, says he's busy but he's really got nothing to do. Told me I need to show up in a suit before he'll give me a minute."

"England?" I wasn't surprised. If there was a man named America there could be a man named England.

"Oh yeah. Limey bastard – no offense." He waved a hand. "Sort of like my father. Or mother. Both, really, but it doesn't matter since I've beaten the crap out of him so many times." He slammed a fist into his palm and grinned.

I was curious. I hadn't felt like that in a while and it filled me with a little sense of delight. It was kind of a warm feeling pushing me forward. "You're not human are you?" It didn't bother me if he wasn't. I knew lots of inhuman things – Hagrid, Professor Lupin, Fleur Delacour. But he looked at me and his eyes were sort of odd. They were wide but then narrow and his lips did the same.

"How'd you figure it out?"

"It's obvious to anybody, if they looked."

He scowled but then smiled. He gave a little laugh. I asked him what was so funny and he started to look at me intently again.

"You're sharp," he told me and pulled out his packet of cigarettes. They were Lucky Strikes. He put one in his mouth and took out a lighter. It was a Zippo. He offered me one and I took it because even though it had made me sick last night I had liked the taste. "C'mon. We've got an hour before the gun shop opens."

For some reason I didn't think we would Apparate to London. I thought we would be driving. He said that he used to have a car but had to sell it because he ran short on money. I asked him how we were going to get to London in an hour. He said we would flit.

"What's flit?"

"Flitting when you're doing it. Verb. It's –" He scratched his chin and neck thoughtfully. "Running really fast, really far in a really short amount of time."

"Oh. I don't know how to do that."

"Crap. I thought wizards could do that." I told him I had never heard of it before. His face seemed to fall. "So maybe it's just us. Okay then – this'll probably fix it."

He shoveled through his pockets. He pulled out two more lighters and another pack of cigarettes. Then, a bit of notebook paper came out. I saw my name written on it and underlined. Finally he took out a medal. It was a silver star attached to a red-white-and-blue ribbon.

"Here," he said and gave it to me. I looked at it. It looked old but it sparkled under my fingertips. It felt warm and smooth, ridged and filled with scratches, like it had been cradled a lot. "Hold onto it and you'll probably be able to follow me. All you've gotta do is just do what I do."

I held onto it. The points of the star dug into my hand but they didn't draw blood so that was alright. I watched America bounce on the heels of his loafers for a few seconds. Then he broke out into a flat run. He jumped onto the back of a bench ten feet away, then the trunk of a tree, and then the air.

It was kind of hard to explain. But it made sense when you saw it.

I rocked onto my toes. The gravel ground under my feet. I ran and my foot touched against the wooden back of the bench and it hurt a lot for a few seconds. It wasn't long before I was in the air too, following after him and hitting streetlamps and rooftops when gravity told me to.

It was really easy, once you got the hang of it.

IV.

London was old. It was a labyrinth. Londoners were born with the sense to navigate it but outsiders needed to wait ten years to figure it out. He hated London because England was so proud of it and America didn't understand why. New York and Washington were so much better. They didn't smell like the Thames.

America leaned over, wiping sweat off of his palms on his pants. He'd been walking around for two hours trying to find where Talley's Ammunitions was. He didn't need to buy a gun, but he needed to get his gun back. And Harry probably needed a gun, too, since things were getting bad.

"Where are we going?"

Harry didn't ask too many questions, which was pretty good, since America didn't have too many answers to give him. This one he could. He turned and looked at the teenager behind him. Those green eyes were staring straight on and an eyebrow was trying to raise itself. A few people were looking at him and his lack of shoes oddly but he didn't pay them attention.

It must be good, not to mind if people stared. People usually stared at him and questioned why and though he stared on straight ahead his vision would stray and he would hear them talk.

"Talley's Ammunitions on . . ." He fuddled through his pockets. He had to go deep into them because, somehow, the address had gotten lost amongst old Cold War notes. "Oh. _At _18 Gaventry Avenue. Spitalfields."

"That's east. Cockney district."

"Cockney, huh?" Him and his siblings – the multitude, only three that mattered, though – used to tease and torture England with butchering of Cockney accent. They would use their own bastardized English to bastardize the language further. He did it best, of course, because neither could stray too far into insulting.

They still had loyalty pledged to England's Queen.

"Alright. We can take a subway there, probably. Food first." He dug out a wallet from his pocket, and swore. Only dollars – he hated pounds. But a credit card was shoved there, under an alias 'Smith, John'. That sounded English enough to work. "You got a preference?"

The answer was expected before it arrived. "No, not really."

"Great. Burgers then – now where's a McDonald's . . ."

McDonald's and Starbucks – the two most reliable things in the world – more common than prostitution and murder. Talley's Ammunitions was hidden, perhaps forever, but in ten minutes they were in a McDonald's and American-grade meat was in America's mouth. It tasted undercooked, the lettuce plucked off and lying limp in the cardboard container.

All Harry got was a Coke. He didn't expect anymore.

"So how old are you anyway? Fourteen, fifteen?"

"Sixteen."

"Close enough. You probably go to Hogwarts, don't you?"

"Yeah."

"How much magic you know?"

"Enough. I get by."

"Okay . . . how good of a shot are you?"

"Like with a gun?"

America rolled his eyes. He thought the English were smarter, but sometimes they weren't much better than his own . . . which wasn't much.

"Yeah, exactly." He tore apart the hamburger, savoring the ketchup and the grease.

"Never shot one before. Wood always said I had good reflexes. I'm a good Seeker."

"Alright then. If you're a good Seeker, then you should probably be able to find these things." He took the receipt from their order and began to write on the back. They were all the things he had meant to get before coming to England's domain but forgotten about, and still needed to get. The guns, though, he would take care of.

_Suits x2 My size – 38 BEST QUALITY _

_Beer Budd if you find it, Heineken if not_

_Cigarettes – Lucky Strike or Camel. __GET CHEAPEST_

_Notebook + pens. Blue ink only. _

_2 Cell phone – piece of shit one. Verizon if you can_

_Computer stuff. USB drive_

_Diet Coke_

_Mentos_

_Kitchen knives Ginza_

_Rat poison_

_Salt_

_Get yourself a jacket + shoes_

_Grey's Anatomy Season 3 DVD_

"And here's a credit card. All you need to do is sign your name John Smith and they'll leave you be, I imagine. Don't look suspicious."

Harry nodded, taking both the card and the list and putting them in his pocket. "Do I have to wear the shoes? I kind of like walking without them."

"Whatever floats your boat. Meet me at Trafalgar Square by five with everything. I'll treat you to dinner."

"Thank you." Harry waited until America had finished both the rest of the burger and the fries (the wizard declined the opportunity to sample both) before getting up and leaving. He watched Harry leave.

When had he been that young? Never. He'd been a woman, probably, when he had looked that age, when men had fought for her. Except they never called her America. She was still principles back then instead of a Union like he was now.

America gave a sigh and looked at the remains of his meal. He was getting old and he didn't much prefer it.

He stood up and made his way out of the McDonald's. All he had to do now was navigate London, finding Spitalfields, lost amongst the Cockney land, and find a solitary gun shop with his stolen Colt inside.

V.

I didn't like shopping very much. It was time consuming and a lot of the time you really didn't need the things you were buying. I didn't need the shoes, coat, or suit.

But since America had asked for them I got them. It was boring waiting for the clothes. The woman in the store told me to put on shoes so I bought a pair of trainers and wore them without socks. They started to hurt after a while. I wore them only when I had to go into stores.

I got the feeling I was being followed after a while, after I went to a Mark and Spencer's to get most of the things. I turned around and caught a glimpse of pink hair. Tonks was there. I guess she was following me around. I really hope she didn't try to talk to me. I didn't want to bother with a conversation.

I walked into an electronics store and stayed in there for a while. America had asked for two cell phones and I was trying to find Verizon ones. I thought it must have been an American brand because I couldn't really find it there. I bought two Pay as You Go phones and turned around. Tonks was there. She was looking at me and looked really angry.

"_What _are you _doing_?" Her voice was low and cold. She sounded more like McGonagall than she did Tonks. Or even Hermione. She looked pretty scary when mad, too.

"Shopping," I told her. It seemed rather obvious to me. I was holding a couple shopping bags and a credit card.

"Do you know how much danger you're in?"

"Not really."

She blinked. Her shoulders shifted and her glare lessened. "You need to get back to Privet Drive _now_. How did you even get to London, anyway?"

"I ran," I said because I didn't want to explain flitting. It would have taken a while to do so and I didn't want to be bothered.

"You _ran_?"

"Yeah." I looked at my watch. It was maybe five until five. I didn't know how long it was going to take me to flit to Trafalgar Square since I was on Baker Street now and it was a while away. "I have to go."

"Harry –" She was looking angry again. Her hand tried to grab me but I walked away from her. It was my first day working and I didn't want to be late.

"I can't be late."

I walked out of the store. I took two steps outside before I hit the wall and ran straight up. I think people may have seen me start to flit towards Trafalgar. It wasn't too easy to remember how to do it and get it right. The shopping bags didn't help. They kept slamming against me when I hit down on rooftops. The box of Ginza knifes hurt a lot.

America wasn't at Trafalgar when I got there. I was early. So I sat on top of the National Gallery until he showed up. I wondered what Tonks would tell the Order. I'd probably have to explain how I got the job. Hermione might yell at me for taking it so suddenly without asking more, but she didn't understand. I was bored and there wasn't any reason to refuse him. Most people were happy when they got jobs.

It was really windy up on the roof. My hair kept getting blown into my face. It was a nice kind of wind, though, the kind that came right before a storm. It was good flying weather but I didn't have my broom. I hadn't flown in a while, not since Umbridge took my broom away last year. Well, that wasn't true; there was that trip on the Thestrals. That had been nice weather too.

It was five thirty before America showed up. He looked around all of Trafalgar Square before turning to the top of the National Gallery. I don't know how he managed to see me but he did. Within a minute he was up there too, grinning. There were two guns looped through his belt.

"Get everything done?"

"Yeah. I ran into someone I knew today." I didn't know if I should bother telling him about Tonks but if it was going to interfere with working maybe he should fire me and find somebody else. "She tried to get me to go back to Privet Drive."

He frowned angrily and took out his cigarettes. The pack was almost empty and I took it again. I didn't really need one but I guess I was growing to like smoking.

"Well, damn. I didn't know you had guards on you."

"Yeah. The Order."

"Huh. Well that'll wind up being a problem eventually."

"Oh." I didn't want to get fired. I kind of liked my new job. It got me out of the house and kept me from thinking about school and magic and things like that. We sat there smoking for a while looking out ahead. I looked at the statue of Lord Nelson on his column. He was looking dead-eyed and alert at the towers and buildings.

I wondered what it would be like to just stand in a single place all day looking at the same things. You'd probably wind up going mad or looking for little enjoyments, like the wind or the pigeons that came to crap on you. But I bet you wouldn't be bothered by things like war or poverty or death, because you'd be in the same place for so long that they'd just be invisible and too distant for you to care about.

"I have an idea," America said once his cigarette was finished. I looked at him out of the corner of my eye. "I bet they probably track you by your blood or something, right? Wizards love blood magic for tracking important people. Least in America they do."

"Probably. That makes sense."

"Gimme a beer."

I fetched one out. The beer had made me dizzy last night so I didn't really want to drink anymore. But today it was Budweiser instead of Heineken so maybe that would be different. He took the can and popped it but he didn't drink from it. Instead, he spat into the beer a great glob of spit and then bit down hard on the skin between his thumb and index finger. A steam of blood began to trickle down the back of his hand. It was very, very red against his skin.

We both winced. It looked painful. He brought the wound over the can of beer and let some blood drip into the beer too. Then he swirled the can so they all mixed together and handed it to me.

"Drink it."

I took the Budweiser and looked into it. It didn't look like beer anymore but more like some kind of potion. I didn't really like drinking potions too much. I looked at him with the can still cold and in my hands.

"It'll mask your blood and make it harder for them to track. If they're still finding you – I'll think of something else, okay?"

That made some sense. I brought the can up to my lips and started to chug it. It was a bad tasting beer. Too malty and metallic, like trying to drink pennies soaked in foam. I managed to keep it down, though, and finish the whole can. My head began to swirl around, though, like I had been spinning around and around in circles.

"Good job today. Here." He deposited a gun onto my lap. It was a revolver, heavy and black and shinning in the afternoon sunlight. "Part of your payment. And the suit, coat, and shoes are another part." That seemed fair enough to me, even if I didn't want any of them. They were worth a lot. I nodded to him and said thanks. He smiled and his eyes looked tired. "You know how to get back to your uncle's house, right?"

"I think so. I'll manage."

I was pretty sure that Surrey was southeast of London. My head was starting to hurt really bad now, so much so that it was starting to become hard to drink. I told him that I was going to head home. He said to meet him back at the park on Wednesday and we'd start work again.

I don't know how I managed to flit all the way back to Privet Drive. But I managed to get there before dark. My whole body was aching and covered in sweat. My head was spinning and colors started to blur together to make gray.

My aunt looked at me as I walked upstairs. She seemed to want to ask me where I had been but didn't, which was good because I wouldn't have answered her.

I fell asleep when I touched the bed. I didn't wake up for three days. It was nice because I usually didn't sleep so much and I didn't have anything to do for those three days.

* * *

**Disclaimer:**

I do not own Harry Potter. He and his universe are property of JK Rowling and Warner Brothers. I own this plotline and all original characters contained within it.

**Author's Note**:

Hey look, yet _another _new fic from me! Perhaps instead of new ones I should get around to finishing/updating old ones . . .

. . . nah.

This thing is the lovechild of two bizarre fandoms – Axis Powers Hetalia, the yaoi fangirl's history lesson, and Albert Camus's _The Stranger_, a book you either want to burn or worship. This is, however, **not **a crossover. Stylistic elements are imitated, however.

This sure is a better use of time than SAT prep, huh?

_(begins to cry)_

**Statistics**

_First Posted _9.29.08

_Pages _14

_Paragraphs _199

_Lines _617

_Words _5,934

_Characters _25,196

_Font _Times New Roman

_Font Size _12


	2. Day Two

**DAY TWO**

VI.

I still felt dizzy when I woke up on Wednesday. It was two in the morning and the sky was dark. The only light came from the alarm clock's numbers. I lay in bed for a while looking at the ceiling like I used to do waiting for my headache to go away.

By four in the morning I still felt terrible. I remembered that I had work today though so I got up and felt the world spin. I started to feel a bit better when I took a shower and the icy water hit me. I had to lean my head against the tiled wall a couple times to keep the nausea down. My shoulders shook a little and my eyes were shut tightly.

I probably shouldn't drink so much, even though it was just one beer.

Since I was cold today I put on a jumper and the coat that I'd bought yesterday. It was a canvas jacket green-gray like mold. It fit me pretty good and I pulled it tight towards me. I took the cheap notepad and Bic pen too but I decided not to wear shoes again. My footsteps were a lot quieter as I went downstairs and made some coffee. It was bitter and thick but it got rid of my headache.

I was getting pretty familiar with the route to the park. It was peaceful walking there early in the morning because there usually wasn't anybody outside. Today there was Mr. Clay walking his dog. He looked at me for a while but I just walked by. I really didn't want to start any conversation.

The cup of coffee I'd made was still in my hands. The notepad was tucked under my arm. I only took a few sips of the coffee so the cup was still pretty full by the time I got to the park bench underneath the oak tree. America wasn't there yet since it was only a quarter passed five. I sat down on the bench and watched the sky.

I wonder what it would be like to be a bird. Not like an eagle or a phoenix, but like a pigeon or sparrow. People would leave you alone since there were so many of you, unless they were throwing rocks at you. Then you could just dodge the rocks and go on your way. And you'd never feel bored because you'd always be looking for food and shelter all the time.

And if you died, so what, because you were just one of thousands of other pigeons or sparrows.

I rubbed my temples when my headache started to come back and took some more sips of coffee. I never had liked coffee too much, but I hadn't liked tea too much either. I was a water person, really.

At five till six America showed up. My toes had started to feel numb by then. He was wearing the suit I'd bought yesterday but still had on the bomber jacket. He looked like he hadn't slept too much again. I probably looked the same.

"How long've you been here?"

"Since five-fifteen."

"Christ, you were right when you said you didn't sleep much." I shrugged. He looked at the cup of coffee in my hands. "That coffee?"

"Yeah." He took it and swallowed the rest of the cup in two swallows.

"I got good news for you. I got a place to stay now instead of the park."

"Oh. Congratulations."

"Yep." He smiled brightly and his eyes looked less gloomy. "The Hilton on Edgware Road in London. Room 176. So just meet me there instead of here now, okay?"

"Fine." I'd never been to Edgware Road before but I figured I could find where it was easy enough. I stood up and shoved my hands into my pockets.

"We're going back to London today, though – finally England's letting me sit down and listen to some reason. European countries suck sometimes. Arrogant blowhards, all of them – gotta stroke their egos first, even though you've beaten all their asses at some point." He shook his head and sighed heavily. "So yeah. England's meeting us at some restaurant in Piccadilly. I wonder if his lackeys'll be there."

"Lackeys?"

"The other parts of the UK. Uh, Scotland, Ireland, and . . ."

"Wales," I helped.

"Yeah, Wales."

"My mother was Welsh," I mused. I knew this because Dudley had to do a report on heritage in primary. He had me write it for him. Uncle Vernon was British but Aunt Petunia and my mother were Welsh.

"That so, huh? Don't know much about Wales. Seems like a useless country. Or is it a sub-country?" I shrugged. "Okay, well that doesn't matter. We're meeting them at The Alchemist and The Barrister." I nodded.

He stretched his arms over his head and yawned widely. I saw the gun he'd bought yesterday was tucked into his waistband in a holster. I hadn't brought mine. I didn't have a place for it. I hadn't brought my wand, either. I didn't think I needed it.

This time the flit to London didn't take very long. On Sunday it had been about an hour and a half but this time it was only an hour. My left foot got cut up bad from a weathervane and had to be wrapped in some fabric to keep it from bleeding too much. When we got to London he told me that I needed to buy a pair of shoes because England would get angry if I bled all over the place.

I didn't think it mattered too much if I bled. Everything bleeds. Even American and England.

VII.

Like he believed with most nihilistic things, America fancied that Harry had once been energetic and optimistic. England was much the same way. However, in the case of America's propagator, England had gone from arrogant to depressed, not content to amoral. Yet because he had never known the contented Harry, America was content with the monotonous one he employed.

He ran his hands through his hair again and knotted them behind his head. He missed his home. London was no place for him. It hadn't been the place for him since he had been conceived. Hopefully he would not have to leave home again for a long time after this was done.

They found The Alchemist and The Barrister. It was a pub with a scarlet door and darkened windows that didn't give reflections back. Inside the tables were cramped and portraits of famous Brits from Newton to Clapton were clustered on wood walls. The only thing on the menu seemed to be Guinness and fish and chips. The Rolling Stones played through the speakers.

It was a stereotype incarnate.

"Who's in the private room?" he asked the hostess. She looked at him with narrow eyes.

"Mister Bull," she read from a reservation book.

"Tell him Mister Smith is here," America informed her, pulling his coat tighter to his body. Her glare would go away if he shaved, he knew. But she walked away to the dark room in the raised section of the restaurant.

He turned his head to look at Harry. The wizard didn't look around. He just stood there awkward in the coat and sneakers he'd been forced to buy. They were wastes of money. He regretted letting the boy purchase them and would regret it for a long time afterwards.

"You're not getting anymore shoes after this. Remember to wear 'em, okay?" he snapped to Harry.

"Alright," Harry said and that was the end of the argument. You couldn't argue with a wall or doll, after all.

America shifted. He wanted to smoke. Damn British law forbade him from smoking, but he wanted to smoke. The need was itching through his flesh. He bit on his nail and fingertip to destroy the urge before it got too far. Damn tobacco. Always ruined him.

"Right this way, Mister Smith." The waitress had reappeared, holding two menus against her breasts. He nodded and began to walk. His footsteps pounded loudly on the floor, but Harry's limping made no noise.

Cloak and dagger – England was always good with arm twisting in the back rooms. He was good with terrible threats and promises of pain, with open war and espionage – all tricks of the trade of superpowers that he had passed along to the eldest of his sons. England had the back room today, in The Alchemist and The Barrister, with a table all to his own.

Short, slicked hair. A pair of spectacles on the nose. A pinstripe suit. Eyes like the London fog. Twenty three and ageless, endless, _old_. Fingers holding a cup of tea halfway to his lips.

Surrounding England sat the other three of the United Kingdom, flanking the Brit as vultures to carrion, guards to a body. Ireland – scarred from the Troubles, emerald eyes enflamed – Scotland – scowling, tie undone, lips crooked – and Wales – small and staring, lips apart.

"And the prodigal son returns again," England said, Oxford tongue, smiling, sardonic, eyes twitching in the low lamplight, "For more money, I presume?"

"Hello _mother_," America pronounced, grabbing the chair and twisting it round before planting himself in it. His fingers curled around the back and his chin touched the tops of them, "You're looking well for a useless relic."

"And you're looking particularly well for an upstart," England returned. The empire's old eyes twisted and turned and took in Harry's place behind America. The tea cup lowered and the cordial smile became as flames in the wind. "Why do you have him with you?"

"I had to turn to wizards for help since you wouldn't listen sooner," he explained, slow and poignant, "Hear me out this time."

VIII.

I thought England would look different as a person. He was kind of young. He was staring straight at me. I could sort of see the resemblance between him and America. Their eyes were similar.

"Is that Harry Potter?" asked one of the men who had an undone tie. There was only one girl there. She was small with green eyes. The man with the tie was probably Scotland since he had the accent.

"Yeah, I am," I told them, "May I sit down?"

"Certainly," England said and I took the one next to Wales. She smelled a little like daffodils. England tented his fingers. "American wizards so below par that you had to employ a British one? I'm not surprised."

"Well he's come to his senses and conceded that I'm better."

"You're still clinging onto that old jacket, I see," England remarked, refilling his cup of tea, "Over sixty years old by now, isn't it?"

"No older than those glasses you're wearing."

"What's yer point?" Ireland barked. I thought it was Ireland. He had red hair and freckles, at least. He looked a little like Bill Weasley, but not too much.

"You know what Iran's doing," America warned. I didn't know. I didn't keep up with Muggle news very much except for last summer. He helped himself to half a scone and talked with his mouth full of it. "Korea's doing it too. And China. And –"

"And you," Ireland barked.

"I'm not sicking them loose on my enemies!"

I wondered what was going on but I wasn't going to ask. If they wanted me to know they'd tell me, and if they didn't, it didn't matter. America's fists were clenched and England narrowed his eyes.

"They need to be stopped," he told them.

"Nobody stopped you during the wars," America was told.

"I had just cause, and you _agreed _with me. I didn't see you pulling me back."

"There are always lapses of judgment. You should be pretty familiar with them by now."

"From the way you talk everything you ever did was a 'lapse in judgment'." America raised his fingers and began to tick things off. "Me – Canada – Australia. Spice trading – _every _war you've ever touched – _him_ –" He pointed at Scotland. Scotland scowled and cracked his knuckles.

I leaned back in my chair. Maybe I should be taking notes on the conversation – that was what America paid me for, after all. I took out the little notepad and pen that I had brought with me and began to write down the conversation between America and the United Kingdom. My handwriting was sloppy because I was writing so quickly so I hoped I could read it later.

"We agreed tah help last time when ye said _Iraq _had WMDs," Scotland said, jamming a finger onto the table. Some of the china shook a little. "And we all know how _great_ that worked out."

"I'm not talking to you, Scotty," America barked. Scotland jerked up and the china began to rattle. England looked at him and that was all it took to get Scotland back into his seat.

They were quiet for a while as everyone glared at everyone else. I got bored so I started to doodle on the notepad. I underlined 'WMDs' with several squiggly lines.

"You can't sit back and ignore it," America warned. His eyes were steady. I didn't know what he was getting worked up about. If England wanted to ignore the problem, that was his decision. It seemed like a waste of time to try and convince him if he wasn't interested.

"We didn't ignore it when you said Iraq was the problem," England began after a pause. He was leaning back. His head was tilted down. I noticed his tie had a little diamond clip in the center of it, like a little bead of mercury except white instead of silver. "We were just slow. You decided to go into the fight before any of us could _blink_."

"I was attacked."

"But not by Iraq!"

"This doesn't have anything to do with what's going on now!"

America stood up. I wondered if we were going to leave but he didn't move at all. The sound of my pen scratching on its paper was the only sound in the room. Then Ireland began grinding his teeth and the room didn't seem so silent anymore.

"This is not a case where we can afford another open war," England drawled in his Oxford voice, eyes closing as he thought, "And it's not a place where you should be going, either."

"So just leave 'em throwing WMDs in our faces!"

"But they aren't throwing them in our faces. You're unhappy that they have them. I don't hear you telling us to attack Canada because they have nuclear technology, and he shares a border with you."

"Don't you dare try and tell me that they're the same thing."

"Then what is the difference?" England sighed deeply. "Give me a reason why we should. A solid, definitive reason."

"It's the right thing to do," America said, as though it solved anything.

"Do we need to define definitive for ye?" asked Ireland, leering like a hungry dog.

England turned his gaze away from America and back onto me. He stared for a long time so I supposed that I had to look back at him. My headache started to come back, then – sharps pikes of pain digging into my temples. I was glad that it wasn't from my scar, though, because it was a bad time for my scar to start hurting again.

"Do yourself a favor," England told America even though his eyes never left mine, "And go get something to drink."

America said something back. I stopped listening after a little while. I emphasized the letters in the words 'Iran has WMDs' with heavy lines of the Bic pen. I didn't do too much though. My headache was starting to get really bad where the letters starting chasing each other around and around on the paper.

I heard footsteps and a chair drag away. America stood up. He looked pretty angry but didn't look at me. He walked out of the room and shut the door with a slam and a crack of wood. I stood up because I should probably follow my boss out of the room.

"Stay," England said so I sat back down.

IX.

Much of his wealth and possessions had gone. Much of the loss he was responsible for and could not protest. He clung to what he did have left as a drowning man did a rock. He had his kingdom, lost his empire. Had cousins, lost children.

But he had his subjects. He always had his subjects.

Their number and their loyalty always varied. The support they offered rose and fell. Their pride, like blood, was thinning and thickening. But the English were always there for England. The British always had pride in their Isles.

Except the hero of magical Englishmen had given himself to America.

England didn't care for the wizards because they didn't care much for England. They lived on his land but they lived only for themselves. When they turned eleven they stopped being English and they started being wizards. The only reason Harry Potter mattered at all was that he'd been lost to America.

The boy's Welsh eyes were stoic, unsurprised, indifferent. Careful observation found little life save the biological need for it. England watched him, waited for the boy to speak. England waited for him to crack the icy quiet to question why he was held back. The questions never came.

England was aware of Scotland's scowl and his impatience, of Ireland's curiosity and worry. But London eyes still stared into Potter's field of green.

Finally, he snapped the silence

"How much is he paying you?"

"I don't know," Harry said. Bored, tired, and prompt were the words.

"Ye took a job without knowing the pay? Ye ain't American, boy – show some dignity!"

"Shut up," England warned. He didn't even turn to face Scotland. "How long have you worked for him?"

"Since Saturday."

"I see."

"Tell me yer gonna do somethin' to fix this," Scotland said. England met his gaze. The sheen of rebellion still clung to the northerner's blue. But he would be damned if he let Scotland leave him. He had enough dignity to keep Scotland down.

"Do you plan on leaving Voldemort be and focus on what America wants of you?" England questioned.

"If they ask me to I'll help," Harry explained. He shrugged and fixed his glasses. His fingers lingered upon his temples.

A headache?

England's pupils contracted.

Residual effects.

So Harry had been paid already. The terms had not been negotiated correctly, or understood by both parties.

"Idiots," passed his lips as a sigh.

He had lost subjects to America before. It was vain of him to wish Harry Potter back. Now was need of action. "Very well. Tell him this. We will help with Iran, or whatever quagmire he wants to pull us into, if you reaffirm loyalty to us."

"Alright," said Harry, a response without consideration.

He was aware of the hatred in the eyes of Ireland and Scotland. Wales never cared – her eyes always inwards, glazed and gone. Neither of the Gaelic two wanted another war. They were already suffering because of two, and because of the past, too.

"Come back to this restaurant at eight o'clock tonight," he told Harry, "Then, go to Moscow. Find Russia and tell him we want the Amber Room. Give it to us and we'll go to war with America."

"Alright," repeated Harry. His fingers were still at his temple, massaging in tiny circles back and forth.

"You can leave," England said and, as a puppet pulled by strings, Harry was up and out of the room. He followed the same steps his employer had taken, exactly.

Scotland stood up immediately to fill the place. His tailcoats fell round his skinny body and though he was short he held himself tall, jaw front and locked and tight.

"Ye mind explaining what that was about? We don't want no bloody war!"

"I'd like to know myself," spat Ireland, his eyes contracting. Wales looked at the floor.

"He's been activated," England said with just as much bile as his other two parts, "And I'd rather him belong to us than to our overzealous son."

"Ye mean _yer _overzealous son," corrected Scotland. His fingers cracked as they became fists. England's twitched over towards a knife covered in strawberry spread.

"He's as much Scottish as he is English. He's no money because of a Scotsman, after all."

"He's broke 'cause he's an idiot, and yer one too fer agreein' to go after Iran!"

The silver snake in England's hands leaned out and struck. It bit deep into Scotland's hands, the single jam-covered fang digging in and in. Blood like Irish hair sprung forth and onto the oak table and carven chairs.

"You don't question me!" roared England, rising just as Scotland sank, the knife still lodged between the bone and cartilage, "My will is said and shall be done, and unless you want to fend on your own against the continent's children you will sit down and keep your fat mouth shut." The British lion bared its teeth. "Do you understand?"

"I should have gone with the other me," Ireland whispered.

Wales sat back and watched the United Kingdom tear each other apart, again.

X.

He didn't believe me when I first told him all I had to do. So I said it again. I had to go back to The Alchemist at eight o'clock. Then I had to go to Moscow, get the Amber Room from Russia, and give it to England. He asked me what the Amber Room was and got angry when I said I didn't know.

"Well just go back there at eight and ask him what the hell an Amber Room is!" he snarled, kicking a garbage can for emphasis. The sound echoed pretty bad inside my head.

"Alright," I said. I wished I could go someplace to sleep, which was strange because I usually didn't like sleep.

"Okay. Okay." America shoved his hands into his pockets and found his cigarettes. He didn't offer me one but I would have enjoyed the taste of nicotine. I should get myself my own pack and lighter. "You know Russian?"

"No. Only English."

"You need to learn it, and a lot more. Hell, so should I. We'll go get Rosetta Stone."

"What about magic?"

America scowled at me and I couldn't understand why. Magic would make things easier. If I could learn the Russian quicker from a spell then I could go to Moscow faster and get England to side with America against Iran. It was efficient to learn it through magic.

"Fine. I don't know how to do language-learning spells or whatever they are." But his eyes started to widen and a smile started to appear on his face. He was being really quite confusing today. "Canada would know. Yeah – he would. C'mon, we've got to go to Ottawa."

I had never been out of the country before. We were going to flit there. I asked him how you could flit over water when there wasn't anything to kick from, so he explained how you did it. It made a lot of sense once you understood it.

He told me that I would need to wear shoes the whole time because Canada's domain was always cold. I told him that I liked cold weather and he grinned and said good.

Flitting across the ocean was different from flitting across land. It took a lot more energy to stay up in the clouds. My legs started to hurt like I had been cycling for hours. The foot that had been cut by the weathervane stung when the salt water touched it. The shoes were soaked through after the second jump.

I liked the ocean. There were only the two of us out there and maybe a few seagulls. The smell of brine clung me and the salt was sticky on my skin. I felt like I had just gone to the beach, like I had been lying out in the sand for hours, except there wasn't any sand there just salt.

There wasn't any conversation out in the ocean. There was only water.

I saw a lot of fish while flitting, following America as he ran. The schools were huge in the Atlantic, larger than any aquarium collection or even the ones in the Hogwarts Lake. They all looked like black holes from where I ran. I wondered if you would ever come back if you fell into one of the black holes.

Maybe it would be better to be a fish than to be a bird. I realized this when I saw a seagull swoop and grab some herring. Fish didn't need to think but birds did. All fish did was swim. It was a very easy life.

It took three hours to get to Ottawa. It was early morning in Canada's domain. All their clocks said seven o'clock but my watch said it was noon. I didn't want breakfast or lunch, though. Ottawa didn't look like London very much. It didn't look like much of anything but a city.

"Washington's much better," America assured me. We walked up a road of designer stores. A girl with a lot of shopping bags stopped to look at us. I didn't look at her. "I'll bet you don't know much about Canada." I told him no because I didn't. "Nobody really does. I don't, and I share a border with him." He laughed. He was in a better mood than he had been in at The Alchemist.

I looked up at the sky and felt cold wind blow over my face. It was good flying weather here, calm but breezy, but I still didn't have a broom. Maybe I should go to Diagon Alley and buy another broom. It seemed like too much effort for something so trivial.

We stopped at a Starbucks for something to eat. I got a cup of black coffee. Caffeine helped to get rid of headaches. He got a Danish.

"I didn't pay you on Sunday, did I?" he asked. There was dread in his voice. He had pastry flakes and grease on his jacket. I said that he'd given me my coat and my gun. I didn't expect money. Most of the things I did were done without pay. "Call 'em a bonus. I'll get some money from Canada. Here."

From his pocket he took out a wallet. From the wallet he pulled out two strips of green paper. Each was worth fifty American dollars and he gave them both to me.

"A hundred bucks a day," he promised me. I thanked him and put the money in my pocket.

We went to a park with a playground where a group of children were playing tag. They were shouting in French and they had tears in their eyes even though they were laughing. Why did people cry when they were happy? I never understood why. It seemed wrong of them to mix tears and joy but then who was I to judge? It wasn't my job to decide that, even if I wanted to be.

My job was to run errands for America and get the Amber Room from Russia.

There was a man on a bench in the park. He was smaller and frailer but otherwise looked very much like America, except he had glasses. America sat down beside him.

"Hello little brother," he said to the man, who must have been Canada.

"I thought you were visiting Maman," Canada said. An echo of French haunted his voice.

"Don't call him that," America corrected. He leaned his body along the bench. The cigarette bobbed up and down in his mouth. "How's weather been?"

"Warm."

"You mean higher than sixty?"

"Yeah."

Canada was smiling. America was grinning. I was standing away, drinking my coffee. A Québécoise mother was yelling for her son.

"Glad to see you're feeling better," Canada said. His eyes were very blue, paler than America's. "Oh." He noticed I was there. "Hello." I said hello back. My accent seemed more obvious, now that everyone around me didn't have it too.

America introduced me. He said I was his assistant and that I was very famous in England's domain. Canada said he knew who I was and that it was a pleasure to meet me. I told him likewise.

"What brings you to Ottawa?"

"A favor."

Canada's smile dipped. America seemed to as a lot of favors from people so I was unsurprised that he did that. "What do you need?" he asked. He sounded pained. I drank the rest of my coffee because it was starting to get cold.

America began to explain the situation. My mind wandered and I was watching the Québécoise mother shout at her son. She was speaking French so I didn't know what she was saying. The son looked scared. But the mother wasn't angry at him, she had just been scared. It was really the boy's fault for wandering away. But it was strange of parents to scream at their children to prove they loved and worried about them.

The dregs of the coffee tasted sour, more like bean and less like blend. The Québécoise mother saw me looking at her. She grabbed her son's shoulder and they walked out of the park.

"How many languages do you need to know?" Canada asked.

I looked at America. I had always gotten by just on English so it was whatever he thought was good.

"How many languages are there?"

Canada smiled and pulled his jacket closer to him. It was a tweed blazer with polished black buttons. "More than you could ever know. The United Nations uses six languages for official purposes, so perhaps it's easiest just to learn the other five and work from there."

"He needs to know more than six."

"Do you?" Canada looked at me with his pale eyes. I wished he wouldn't because I didn't want to be part of the conversation. It saved time and was easier.

"I guess," I said.

"UN don't use German or Italian or Japanese," America said, puffing out clouds of smoke and breath, "So can you teach him all of them?"

"I'm surprised you came to me instead of Maman."

"Bastard doesn't do a thing unless you lick his boots clean first."

"It's a thing the both of you have in common."

"Look can you teach him the languages or not?" America was getting impatient. I checked my watch. We had only been there ten minutes even though it felt much longer. I didn't like time very much because it didn't like me very much.

Canada shifted in his seat and pushed up his glasses with his thumb and pinky. He looked between America and me, between his sibling and a stranger. His eyes lingered on me the most.

"I don't think it would be too hard to teach you," predicted Canada. America grinned and thumped him on the shoulder. I shifted weight from my left foot, which had been caught by the weathervane, because it hurt pretty bad. "Could you please hand me that cup?" He pointed at my empty coffee cup.

I handed it to him. I shoved my hands into my pockets where I had tucked the notepad and pen. Canada got up and walked over to a drinking fountain and filled the cup with water. From his pocket he took out a Swiss army knife and cut his thumb on the blade. The drops of blood fell into the cup and then Canada spat into it and then handed it back to me. It was like what America did with the beer on the Gallery.

"I hope I've done this right," Canada said.

"You 'hope'?" America reached his fingers to his Colt revolver. It was looped through his belt. I had never really seen a gun before. The one I had been given was under the loose floorboard under my bed. I hadn't looked at it since I put it there. I wanted to see him see it to see what a gunshot looked like.

"You got your Colt back," Canada observed. Fright haunted his voice. "Congratulations."

"If you kill my assistant you're going to see it up close."

Canada's sky eyes darkened. "I doubt you're going to resort to that. I wouldn't dare kill one of Maman's citizens."

"He's mine," America corrected.

"Then let's be careful you don't kill him." Canada turned to me and handed me the cup. The mix was so red it wasn't, like uranium but sanguine, and thick like syrup. His smile was nice to me. I was a little taller than he was and he was much thinner than me.

"Drink it," he told me and I did.

It was a bad taste that hurt my throat and made my headache redouble and splinter, like broken glass cutting up my brain. I bit down on my tongue. It wasn't any worse than the Cruciartis Curse so I shouldn't be bothered by this pain.

Canada reached up and grabbed my head. His thumbs placed on my temples and the rest of his fingers curled around my head. His hands were very cold and soft and felt good against my head. Like Padfoot's fur was after the rain or in winter. He stared intently at me.

I saw the age in his eyes and the inhumanity and a cold, frozen fear at something neither of us understood.

My brain really hurt. I couldn't see anything for a moment. I head the Québécoise mother's French in my head, but then it became Russian and I could understand both languages. It was a very strange feeling, to suddenly think in a language you hadn't been taught.

Canada let me go. I felt sick and stumbled to a garbage can to get rid of the coffee in my stomach. The world was rocking like a pendulum and I was looking down at a ripped up photograph. The girl in it looked abused.

I thought it might be different being a polyglot. The only thing unusual was that my thoughts would sometimes go in and out of languages. But otherwise it was the same.

"You feeling better?" Canada asked and I told him soy bueno. But then I had to vomit again. I should stop drinking drinks with blood in them.

* * *

**Disclaimer:**

I do not own Harry Potter. He and his universe are property of JK Rowling and Warner Brothers. I own this plotline and all original characters contained within it.

**Author's Note**:

Updates for everyone!

And though I am an America, I can truly say that Canada is better, nicer, and more freezing than his southern brother.

Sorry folks.

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_First Posted _10.5.08

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